


they say men like us age exceptionally well (even if, perhaps, we skipped a spell)

by Macremae



Series: School of Newt [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), gay uncles newmann, guncles one could say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28062204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Jake’s brow furrows. “Field trips?” he echoes. Newt nods.“Yeah. I know most of the cadets haven’t really had the ‘classic December-adjacent winter holidays experience’,” he explains, using the two fingers to make air quotes, “and I thought I could take ‘em to Roppongi Hills for the market there. Looks pretty cool.”In an attempt to provide the cadets with some version of a pleasant holiday experience, Newt decides to take his pseudo-class of perpetually conniving teenagers on an unconventional field trip. And Hermann is there. Due to the Ooblick Incident.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: School of Newt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183523
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	they say men like us age exceptionally well (even if, perhaps, we skipped a spell)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Storystuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storystuff/gifts).



> my fic for the 2020 newmann secret santa: happy holidays tiff!

Two minutes after wrapping the day’s lesson on the physics of life in the arctic, but thirty seconds before the fourth most distressing revelation of Newt’s entire life, Renata raises her hand and asks, “Hey Dr. Newt, what’s a marshmallow?”

Newt, formerly in the process of cramming his tablet, paper notes, and various other wildly unorganized supplies into his messenger bag, freezes. The pencil he’s holding clatters to the lab bench. “A. Sorry.” His eyes open and shut on each word in pure shock, turning the stutter into a series of full sentences. “A what?”

“A marshmallow,” she repeats, dead serious. Beside her, Ilya nods.

“Yes, I was also confused about that. When I went camping with my family, we never had anything under that name.” He glances at Amara. “American thing?”

She shakes her head. “Uh… not super ringing a bell, no.” 

In an act that solidifies the severity of the situation, every pair of eyes in the classroom turn on Newt. He has the cadets’ full, undivided attention, which; he honestly can’t remember the last time _that_ happened. He swallows.

“Guys, marshmallows. Little round, white, squishy squares? You put ‘em on s’mores? Made out of…” his voice trails off as he realises, “sugar.”

Sucrose. C12H22O11 for the table verison. A molecule composed of glucose and fructose, classified as a dietary carbohydrate, and something _none_ of these kids would have had a ton of access to before getting fed by the government, _especially_ the processed block of it that was your average Jet-Puffed. Newt feels his chest give a sympathetic twist. No wonder most of them had pretty unhappy childhoods; they’d been missing out on the number one fuel for kids ages three to thirteen. 

“Uh,” he tries, setting his bag on the lab bench next to the fallen pencil, “it’s basically a dense, sticky thing made out of processed sugar, and if you hold them over a heat source, especially an open flame, the outside toasts and the inside gets really gooey. When I was you guys’ age,” and Jesus, if that isn’t a depressing sentence, “you could get them pretty much anywhere that sold food, and you’d make a fire outside, like I mentioned in the lesson, or in a fireplace, put one on a stick, and roast them. Sometimes we’d put ‘em on a piece of chocolate and put that between two graham crackers, and that’s called a ‘s’more’.”

Vik makes a face. “Sounds disgusting. Americans should not be allowed to popularize their foods.”

“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, Vik,” Newt shrugs. He gives the cadets a once-over. “You guys have had sweets and stuff, though, right? Besides the ones from the cafeteria,” he adds, refusing to count the bone-dry piece of cardboard that passes for cookies in there.

“-Ish,” says Amara. “I can’t really remember a time when rationing didn’t suck.”

“Supposedly Tokyo is getting more stuff,” Jinhai tells them. Then, he rolls his eyes. “We haven’t really been allowed off base, though. At least not there.”

Newt can goddamn relate. Despite eight months in the clear from all alien-related bullshit, six of them spent in the world’s healthiest torture chamber (therapy), four with full basic clearance around the Shatterdome, and three in his new position as a catch-all STEM teacher to five semi-impressionable teenagers, he’s still been allowed only one field trip to a synagogue in Minato City when he and Hermann got married (and the secret one before to get a tux that a) he actually liked and b) actually fit, that Karla and Vanessa absolutely did not take him on, after which they definitely did not stop and get boba). 

An idea begins pushing the gears of his mind towards spinning, and Newt rubs a thumb across the stubble on his jaw. “Hm. Show of interest: how do you guys feel about a field trip?”

Every single hand in the classroom goes up. 

.｡❅*⋆❆*∞*｡*∞*❆⋆*❅｡. 

If there’s one person besides Newt’s students with the ability to make him feel unbelievably middle-aged, it’s Jake Pentecost. Take now, for example. Newt doesn’t know how it’s possible to look cool and unaffected while doing shots of rainbow sprinkles in the ‘dome kitchen at two-forty-five am, but the kid (oh God, he just called him a _kid_ ) is managing admirably. He raises an eyebrow at Newt’s arrival, mid-pouring more sprinkles into his actual fucking shot glass. Newt tries to subtly tug at what is clearly one of Hermann’s cardigans.

“Uh, hey,” he says, gripping one of the cuffs into a sweater paw. “Crunchy?”

Despite Newt immediately considering a vow of silence after the word escapes his mouth, Jake snickers. 

“Yeah. Too cold for ice cream right now, but doesn’t mean we can’t improvise.”

Newt nods. “Absolutely. Love the aesthetic here.” He raises a single pointer finger. “Important question: will you tell if I steal a bunch of baby carrots from the fridge?”

“What baby carrots?” Jake says smoothly. Newt frowns.

“The ones in the produce block; they’re usually by the salad bar with little cups ofー oh,” he cuts himself off, realizing the joke. “Right. Exactly! Great, thank you.”

He makes a beeline for the produce fridge, pulling open the door and rooting around for the tub of baby carrots. Turning back to Jake, he asks, “Could you grab me one of the little bowls they use for spices and stuff? I only need a couple of these.”

Jake nods and reaches up a few cabinets down for one of the small metal bowls stacked on the bottom shelf. He walks over and hands it to Newt, watching without any discernible pretense as Newt grabs a handful of baby carrots and drops them into the bowl. When it’s just full enough, he shuts the fridge door. Jake gives him a half-smile.

“Gottlieb?”

Newt returns the grin. “Yeah. He gets hangry when he works this late and I’m trying to make him go to bed soon, so hopefully these’ll help.”

Jake nods, eyes flicking over Newt’s face in a way that feels analyzing, but unmalicious. Newt gets it. No matter how quickly Hermann was able to snap back to nitpicking everything from his theories to the way he ties his shoes, the rest of their old friends are still trying to reconcile this version of him with the one they knew before, and the one that turned out to be entirely a lie. He’s gotten used to it. At least the conclusion they come to has started to take a more positive turn. 

“Actually,” Newt says, using his free hand to hold up two fingers, “I just remembered I have a second question. What’s the protocol for, like, mostly-educational field trips?”

Jake’s brow furrows. “Field trips?” he echoes. Newt nods.

“Yeah. I know most of the cadets haven’t really had the ‘classic December-adjacent winter holidays experience’,” he explains, using the two fingers to make air quotes, “and I thought I could take ‘em to Roppongi Hills for the market there. Looks pretty cool.”

He feels a slight twist in his stomach as the brows turn further downward, and forces himself to loosen his grip on the bowl. _It’s chill_ , he tells himself, _it’s fine. If he says yes, great, but if he says no, then that’ll be the end of it. You’re good. All you did was ask. Asking for shit is fine. Take a breath, man._

“And they got it up and running again?” Jake finally says after another moment. Newt nods.

“I mean, the website doesn’t promise you’ll weep tears of joy or whatever, but it’s something.”

Jake sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. “Alright, Newt, I’m gonna level with you: I don’t see a problem with it. It’s a bloody Christmas market, and I’d love to see the kids get a break and get off the base for a little bit. But,” he says with emphasis, and Newt presses his lips together.

“But?”

“If I give the okay, I can’t guarantee everyone else who needs to sign off on it will. Even putting aside the whole…” he hesitates, and Newt resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Aliens in my brain thing, yeah,” he says flatly. Jake sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Yeah. Even putting aside that, you gotta look at the logistics. It’s five teenagers running around the city with a chaperone who doesn’t have the world’s greatest track record for responsibility.”

Newt opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. The odds of someone who has to approve the trip _also_ remembering the mildly infamous Ooblick incident from 2023 are… pretty good. 

“Oh, c’mon,” he tries, “Hermann and I were like your and Mako’s de-facto babysitters back in the day, and we didn’t do too badly!” He raises an eyebrow, then suddenly, lets it fall. The idea, there it is, clicks into place. Newt snaps his fingers. “Wait. Wait! I’ve got it. Everybody’s under the understanding Hermann’s an extremely competent person, right?” Jake nods. “Great, okay, so: he and I co-do this thing together! We have a nice time, the kids get to go make some specialty TikToks or whateverー I have no ideaー and everybody wins. Yeah?”

The idea is visibly appealing to Jake, but he hesitates. “It’s not that I don’t trust you two, really, but… I dunnoー”

Newt, patience thinned, holds up a hand to stop him. “Okay, dude, listen. Lemme give you some advice: if somebody offers you a minimum three hours of date nightー and yeah, think of it that way,” he adds off Jake’s expression, “with the kids taken care of? Nothing that’s your problem, no schedules or whatever? You don’t ask questions. You say thank you, Newt, don’t let them set anything on fire.”

Jake throws up his hands in defeat. “Jesus, mate, point made. I’ll get you a van.” He throws a meaningful look at the bowl of baby carrots. “You’ve gotta convince Gottlieb, though.”

Newt laughs. “You do know what kind of food is on the menu at this place, right?”

.｡❅*⋆❆*∞*｡*∞*❆⋆*❅｡. 

Newt pulls the end of his scarf tighter around his neck, tugging part of it up to cover his chin. Another lick of cold air zips through the market doors, sending the hair of everyone in the group whipping in all directions, and a few of the cadets less used to chilly weather shivering. Beside him, Hermann adjusts the furry hood of his practically immortal parka. 

After a quick head count shows everyone present, Newt nods to himself and claps his gloved hands. “Okay!” he says loudly, getting the cadets’ attention. “Before I let you guys loose, I’m gonna lay down some ground rules.”

“Cringe,” comes a voice from the group that sounds suspiciously like Jinhai. There’s a chorus of snickers, and Newt rolls his eyes.

“That word doesn’t work on me anymore; find a new one. Now,” he begins, “I understand and acknowledge that you guys are all mature adults, and you’ve been self-sufficient for a long time, and you’re all smart and responsible, blah blah blah.” He makes a flippant motion with his hand at the words, then points at his chest with his thumb. “But _my_ ass is on the line for anything you do tonight. Not Hermann’s,” the thumb moves to Hermann, who he tells, “no offense, babe, but you’re all for show,” then back to Newt, “mine. So I am asking you guys: _please_ do not leave the market grounds, do not get into fights, _especially_ with anybody stupid, and if I get so much as a whiff of any schemes, shenanigans, or bullshit, I _will_ make you guys write a paper on clams; do not test me.” He gives them a severe look. “We good? Any questions? No?” At no response, he finally smiles. “Alright, go have fun.”

Renata lets out a whoop and grabs Amara’s hand, running off into the market towards a store with the rest of the cadets following close behind. Ilya, taking up the rear, waves back to Hermann and Newt as they leave. Newt gives him a thumbs up.

“You wanna go find some food?” he asks, turning to Hermann and lacing their fingers together. Hermann nods, leaning on Newt to pull the market map from his parka pocket with the hand holding his cane, and unfolds it. He gives the other side to Newt.

“The hot stand has eintopf,” he suggests, “and I’m bloody freezing.” Newt snorts and squeezes his hand.

“Yeah, I can feel you shivering. Sounds good.”

Hermann returns the map to his pocket and they start down the market walkway, Hermann pressed as close to Newt’s side as he can while still being able to walk. The place is covered in lights and tree branches, roofs of the stalls trimmed with bulbs, and stars hanging down from the glass ceiling. Hermann gives an unimpressed sniff.

“I have no idea who ended up choosing red and green of all things for the holiday’s colors, but they must have been extraordinarily colorblind. It’s garish.”

“Is this a sensory thing, or are you just doing your annual cathartic bitch about Christmas?” Newt asks, wearing what he knows is a mortifyingly soppy grin. “Because it was actually some dude who made an ad for Coca-Colaー”

“No, no, everything I learn about this commercialized mess is against my will.” Hermann gives Newt’s ankle a light tap with his cane. “If I remember, Germany doesn’t even go this extravagant.”

“Hermann, you grew up in a hick ski town in the middle of nowhere-ville Bavaria,” Newt points out. “Berlin was literally this exact amount of insane; even _I_ remember that, and I barely lived there. You just lived in a majority-Jewish community.”

“Yes, and you in Boston,” he replies, “so I imagine you rung in the winter holidays with a nice car crash or seventeen.”

Newt chooses not to mention that the first time he got t-boned in an intersection was, in fact, during Chanukah, mainly since Hermann already has access to that memory. “Whatever. This is still nice, isn’t it?”

Hermann inclines his head to indicate he’s made a point. “I can appreciate the artistry. And the aromas.”

“Smells like a family reunion, huh?”

A bright little laugh escapes Hermann’s mouth, making his eyes crinkle. “Exactly, yes. I suppose some things never change.”

“You just _know_ somewhere in here there’s a poor kid who got stuck with grating all the veggies and roots and stuff, and is gonna use up a whole box of bandaids by the end of the night.”

“Better than having to clean up all the icing sugar.”

“Oh God,” Newt groans, “that duster thing is my sleep paralysis demon. I have no idea why my dad made us use it every year.”

They reach the hot stand and step in line behind a mother with a gaggle of small children, all bounding in various directions and clutching spice stars from a store over. One little girl, bundled head to toe in pastel yellow and green, catches Hermann’s gaze and waves a tiny, chubby hand. He waves back with his and Newt’s joined hands, smiling softly. Newt feels something warm and mushy pulse in his chest.

When they reach the front of the line, the bored-looking tween takes their orders for eintopf and a mulled wine to share (Hermann’s medication sets his tolerance at about zero, and the most alcohol Newt prefers these days is OTR PBR Craft, which the Precursors and most people who didn’t identify as college freshman, refused to touch with a ten-foot pole). The girl takes Hermann’s card, then pauses.

“Hey,” she says, squinting at Newt, “aren’t you that one guy?”

Newt feels his stomach drop into his shoes. He is suddenly very, very cold. “Uh,” the word comes out half-croak, “Iー I’m sorry?”

“Yeah,” the girl nods, and then says a combination of words he could not have predicted in approximately two million years, “the Dr. Newt guy from TikTok!”

Newt and Hermann let out a simultaneous, identical, “What.”

She frowns, flushing. “Oh, uhー sorryー there’s just this girl on TikTok I follow who does makeup tutorials, and she posted a fancam for this guy named Dr. Newt, and he looks exactly like you.” She picks up her phone from the counter and taps it a few times, then turns the screen to face them. A video with the onscreen title “dr. newt fancam <3 king of hand gestures!” plays featuring a series of clips and pictures of, yeah, that’s definitely Newt. In the classroom, and filmed far away in the cafeteria, and a couple headshots from journal publications. It’s set to a song called “Say So” by Doja Cat. The account is named “renataheartseyeliner”. Newt feels mildly faint.

“Uh,” he says, aware that Hermann’s eyes are close to popping out of his head, “yeah. That’s, uh, me. I’m herー” he fumbles for an explanation that this civilian with no knowledge of the past few batshit months of Newt’s life could possibly accept, “uncle. I’m her uncle. And a doctor.”

“Oh, okay,” says the girl, thankfully buying it. “Well, tell her I love her stuff.” She reaches into the stall’s kitchen and hands them their styrofoam bowls of soup and a cup of wine. “Have a nice night.”

They walk a few paces away to a nearby bench, more for Newt’s current crisis than Hermann’s leg. Setting his cane beside them, Hermann turns to him. “Newton. You know I don’t use this sort of language lightly, but: what the absolute _fuck_ was that?”

“I think I’m connecting with the youths,” he replies, mildly hysterical. “Shouldー should I be flattered? Or weirded out? I honestly don’t really understand what we just watched, but I don’t think it’s illegal or making fun of me?” He runs a hand through his hair, balancing his soup on his thighs. “God, Herms, I feel so _old_.”

“Well you are, darling,” Hermann says, patting his knee. “Congratulations.”

“If me from a few decades ago could see me now, I would absolutely roast me to pieces.” He sighs. “I mean, at least they’re not scared of me anymore.”

“The video had a sparkle filter, Newton.”

Newt wheezes out a high-pitched laugh. “Oh Jesus. It did.” He leans back against the bench. “Ugh. What the hell.”

“Eat your soup before it goes cold,” Hermann answers. He takes a sip of the wine. “Mm, and try this. It’s quite good.”

Newt removes the plastic top of his bowl and unwraps the spoon, scooping a meatball into his mouth. It’s hot and spicy and chewy, and he makes an appreciative noise. Hermann leans his head on Newt’s shoulder and takes another sip.

“Hi,” Newt says, looking down at him and grinning. “Whatever happened to no public displays of affection?”

“You got possessed by bloody aliens, and I stopped caring.”

“About?”

“Yes.”

Newt laughs, looking out over the market. He catches a glimpse of Vik’s unmistakable shock of white-blond hair in front of the Advent Shop, and spots Jinhai tearing a slice of stollen in half to share with Ilya. Bumping Hermann’s shoulder with his own, he muses, “Did you ever think about having kids?”

Hermann shakes his head. “No. I don’t think it’s for me. I’ve always liked the idea of being an uncle, though.” He raises an eyebrow, and Newt bumps him again.

“Hey, I panicked.”

“Freud would disagree.”

“ _Freud_ made that shit up for views.” He pauses, then admits, “I kinda don’t mind it. The kids are cool. And when I’m teaching them, I feel like…” The lights above them turn and wink. “I dunno. The kind of person who gets to do that thing. Be normal, teach teenagers chemistry, get confused about slang and social media and feel a little embarrassed.” He snorts. “Know they talk shit when I assign homework.”

“You rarely even do _that_ ” Hermann snipes good-naturedly. “According to Ranger Pentecost, you’ve allocated quite a few curious materials for in-class experiments.”

“Yeah, well, flaming elephant toothpaste is cool; what can I say?” Newt manages to get a carrot onto his spoon and takes the entire thing in one bite. “They’d better think I’m pretty awesome for this, though.”

He moves to spoon more soup, but pauses as a ripple of noise spreads through the crowd around them. People begin to look up, stopping where they stand, and Newt and Hermann raise their heads to watch as tiny, white bits of fluff begin to fall from the ceiling. Newt reaches up and catches one in his hand, showing it to Hermann. He feels his face split into a wondrous grin. “Snow.”

“Warmer than the real thing,” Hermann remarks, brushing off a piece as it lands on his nose. Newt feels the comforting weight of his gaze as he catches another flake from falling into his soup and waves his hand through the fake flurry. It’s fake snow indoors in December and somehow it’s the most incredible thing he’s seen all year, just under the first real smile Hermann gave him after he came to, gasping, still in that cell but not truly. 

Struck with the emotion welling in his chest and threatening to spill out of his eyes, Newt leans over and takes Hermann’s cheek in his hand, feeling the line of his jaw through his glove. He kisses him, unabashed and deeply, tasting the cinnamon and citrus of the wine in his warm, yielding mouth. 

When he pulls back, Hermann’s eyes are large and bright, halved by his wide smile. “And what was that for?” he asks softly. Newt kisses the spot on his nose where the snow had landed.

“Chag Sameach. I love you. Let’s go get those kids some lebkuchen.”


End file.
